


sharp points and smoking carpets

by uptillthree



Series: meetings at crossroads [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, andrew is looking for a fight and nicaise is twice as bad, damen is there as Mediator, mentions of damen/laurent, mentions of mental illness and ptsd, the inevitable sequel, therapy sessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12703248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uptillthree/pseuds/uptillthree
Summary: When Andrew came into view, Nicaise’s gaze flicked to him, assessing. “Who the hell are you?”Andrew tilted his head. Considered. “I’m one of Bee’s patients.”Nicaise looked abnormally delighted by that admission. “Oh? What’s your damage?” He laughed. “Did your Mommy and Daddy not give you enough attention?”Andrew had forgotten how much he hated children.





	sharp points and smoking carpets

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly wrote the first part on a whim and never expected to add to this but i kept getting interested and God, Here, Have It
> 
> (@julesdap on twitter, come fight me)

Because Andrew was positioned on the wall to the right side of Bee’s office, he heard them before he saw them.

“— already agreed you don’t have to do this all year, but we also agreed you’d go to _one_ session. That was the deal.” A deep voice, certainly not Laurent’s, and too deep to be a teenager’s.

“Fuck off. Not like I have a choice, do I?” That had to be the patient in question; he sounded too young not to be. Andrew could hear their footsteps turning the corner towards the waiting room, and readied himself.

“That’s not what—”

“Yeah, it is!”

There was a wide window on the wall opposite Bee’s office, and in the bright light of her waiting room, the inside reflected perfectly upon it, providing Andrew with a clear view of the new visitors without having to let them see him.

A trickle of apprehension crawled down Andrew’s spine. The teenager who’d spoken last was skinny and would have looked harmless except for the furious expression on his face, but the man accompanying him—Andrew was almost certain that was Damen—was more than a foot taller than Andrew and muscular enough to be a difficult enemy even in a knife fight. He looked even older than Laurent, somewhere around his mid-twenties; he walked like a soldier. Andrew absently wondered if he should have brought Renee.

“Not like Laurent asked if I wanted to go to therapy, did he?” the younger of the two bit out. “Like I’m some fucking basket case or something. Whatever. I don’t need it.”

“Well—” The man huffed out a laugh and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Laurent didn’t ask because he knew you’d refuse without even thinking about it.” He sighed. “It’s just therapy, Nicaise, it doesn’t mean you’re— crazy, or damaged, or whatever you’re thinking.”

Nicaise let out a snort so derisive and disbelieving Andrew was almost impressed. “Can we just get this over with?”

Another sigh. “I’ll tell Dobson you’re here.”

Calmly, Andrew watched Damen enter Bee’s office. That was fine, he told himself. Damen was not something Andrew had predicted, but it wouldn’t have made sense for him to try anything with Bee anyway. He had no motive. More importantly, Andrew was able to slip into the room for a better look at Bee’s new patient. That was what he’d come for in the first place.

Nicaise had ignored the waiting couch and leaned instead against the wall, arms crossed and a thunderous expression on his face. Andrew wondered why he hadn’t run for it yet, if he really hated the idea of therapy so much.

But then, not everyone lived with Neil Josten’s mindset.

When Andrew came into view, Nicaise’s gaze flicked to him, assessing. The boy couldn’t quite hide how his posture stiffened. “Who the hell are you?”

Andrew tilted his head. Considered. “I’m one of Bee’s patients.”

Nicaise looked abnormally delighted by that admission. “Oh? What’s your damage?” He laughed. “Did your Mommy and Daddy not give you enough attention?”

Andrew had forgotten how much he hated children. He leaned against the adjacent wall, mirroring the younger boy’s pose. He could feel the cold of the metal knives through his armbands. “No. They’re dead.”

Nicaise didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, is that it? Couldn’t take the grief? Made you unstable, violent?” He gave a dramatic sigh. “Really, is that all? I expected something more interesting.”

Andrew watched him. Nicaise spoke too fast to be comfortable. _Defense mechanisms,_ Andrew thought. The voice in his head sounded annoyingly like Bee’s.

“No,” he said finally. “I don’t care about them. I was a foster child.” He saw Nicaise’s jaw muscles clench at that, blue eyes widening. “Interesting,” Andrew muttered.

“Fuck off.” Nicaise dug out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The movements were agitated. Andrew absently wondered whether Damen knew he had the cigarette pack.

“Bee doesn’t like smokers in her waiting room.”

“Do I look like I care? I’m not sick.” Andrew stared at him, face blank. “I’m not. I don’t need a fucking shrink.”

“Can’t be that sure about it if you feel the need to convince me.”

Nicaise let out a hard breath of smoke. The hand not holding the cigarette was clenched around the lighter. “I said, _fuck off.”_

“Are you a foster child too, then?” That was cruel; Andrew already knew he was. “Is that _your_ damage?”

To the boy’s credit, he was fast. Andrew was forcibly slammed against the wall in two blinks. Andrew let him. Nicaise’s breathing was harsh, smelling like nicotine. His fist was tangled in Andrew’s coat, not touching his skin.

 _“Fuck off, I said,”_ Nicaise said, a low snarl. The ash from his cigarette was staining Bee’s carpet, because Nicaise had dropped it in favor of a small penknife.

Andrew caught Nicaise’s wrist— the boy never really intended to use the knife— and twisted it, not enough to break, just enough to hurt and open his palm. Nicaise cried out. The carpet muffled the clatter of the blade to the floor.

“That’s useless in a real fight,” Andrew told him, just as the door opened.

“Nicaise? What—” It was Damen, who stopped short at the scene in front of him. Andrew was starting to see Damen as the sort of adult who had ultimately good intentions but was useless anyway. Andrew had met too many of those.

Nicaise had scrambled away from him, furious. He was trying to rotate his wrist and rub it without anyone noticing.

Damen picked up the penknife. His gaze lingered on the burnt out cigarette. “Did you bring this?”

“Damen, is Nicaise—” Bee stepped out of her office, saw him, and stopped speaking. A frown settled on her face. Andrew had to shove down the disgusting instinct to apologize. “Andrew, you have to stop antagonizing my other patients. You know that.”

“I do,” Andrew said. Bee nodded, because both of them also knew that was the closest thing to an apology Andrew could give.

“No,” Damen said, “I’m sorry, Nicaise shouldn’t have—”

“It’s alright,” Bee said tightly. Andrew only stared back at him. Watching them and the mounting tension, Bee said, “I’ll be waiting inside,” before returning to her office.

Nicaise was still glaring down at the carpet where his penknife had been, facing the wall. Damen sat on the arm of the waiting couch to put himself in front of him. “Nicaise,” he said. “You can’t bring this to a session.” He meant the knife. “The cigarettes, too.” He held out a hand.

Nicaise tensed. “No.”

Damen sighed. _Useless,_ Andrew thought absently. He leaned against the wall again, slipping one finger beneath his armbands to run it along a knife handle.

“Here. I’ll let you keep this,” Damen said, and held out the penknife, handle first. Nicaise’s eyes were wide as he took it. Andrew watched them, fascinated despite himself. _“But,_ this week, I’ll teach you how to fight— without needing that— and you stop carrying it around. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good, because the cigarettes weren’t up for negotiation. Hand them over.”

Nicaise scowled as he dug into his pockets, fishing out the pack and slamming it into Damen’s palm. He moved to enter the office, glaring at Andrew as he went.

“The lighter too, Nic.”

 _“Fuck’s_ sake.” Nicaise tossed it at him and looked irritated when Damen caught it easily.

 _“Thank_ you.” He clapped Nicaise’s shoulder. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Bee’s office door slammed as Nicaise went in.

Damen sighed again, slumping against the couch. For a moment he looked truly tired. The air still stank slightly like nicotine.

“He could hurt Bee with that knife.”

Damen glanced at Andrew. “No,” he said slowly. “Laurent told me Dobson’s well-trained in self defense. Part of why she’s that good.”

Andrew blinked. He hadn’t known that about Bee. He’d known Bee for years. He hadn’t thought to ask.

“I trust her,” Damen continued. “She’s good.”

Andrew blinked again, more slowly. “You were her patient?” He couldn’t picture it.

“No, but—” Damen laughed, a little embarrassed. Andrew didn’t know why Damen was even talking to him. “Laurent and I had a few joint sessions with her, when we were just… starting out. I wasn’t her patient, really, but she helped anyway, with—” Damen shook his head, and this time his laughter was barely a breath in his throat. “I had PTSD— _have_ PTSD, I guess, but— they say it gets easier, over time.” He looked at Andrew, shrugging. “It gets easier.”

Andrew stared at him. What kind of fuckwad revealed trauma like that to a total stranger in a single conversation?

Damen stood up. “I need caffeine, or I’ll be asleep before Nicaise gets out,” he said. “There was a cafe downstairs, wasn’t there?”

Andrew didn’t reply, but Damen nodded to himself anyway, and then he was turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

Andrew slid to the side of the wall to fall into the nearby armchair.

So maybe Damen wasn’t that useless.


End file.
